Insight
by Dex477
Summary: Katniss studies human nature. Oneshot. No spelling/grammatical errors.


**Insight**

_A/N: This story is not a plot addition to the story of the Hunger Games. It's just a little rant that I turned into a story. It is inserted to the point right after Madge gives Katniss the mockingjay pin. It's something I have noticed among people, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one to notice it, so I thought I would write this. The character of Madge reminded me of this a little bit, so I thought a little fanfiction like this might be a good way to vent. And it is based off of the book, since I haven't seen the movie yet. Enjoy. :P_

I look down at the little golden thing that Madge handed me. "It's a mockingjay," I say matter-of-factly.

"Yes," she replies softly, her voice tinged with appreciation that I identified it. "I thought you could use it. It's not a weapon, so it shouldn't be confiscated."

"It's very pretty," I reply. "Thank you." I guess I should have expected this sort of thing, some kind of district honor. Madge, though... we have always had this half-friendship, and this position feels different now that I am the one actually receiving said honor. It feels like I don't deserve it, or something. Uncalled for. Unwarranted. Whatever.

And then it occurs to me that I am doing them a huge favor – by taking up the female tribute mantle that would otherwise go to someone else.

"Madge!" I call out. She has almost disappeared into the crowd, although I had hardly noticed as she smiled and turned away. Now, though, she reappears. "This brooch reminded me of something." I take a breath, unsure of how to begin. "Sorry for what Gale said the other day."

"Gale?" Recognition crosses her face. "Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it; I get that sort of attitude from Seam kids all the time." She smiles. "I understand. You better get going, now, though. Effie Trinket is right over there." She points.

"I guess I'll see you…" my voice breaks before I finish my sentence, but Madge had already been swept away by the masses anyway. I head off in the direction she pointed.

_I understand_. What did she understand? She seemed so knowing when she said that. It wasn't just a phrase meant to accept an apology; it was more than that. For some reason, it bothers me as I follow Effie absentmindedly down a hallway or two. _I get that attitude all the time_. Huh.

It shouldn't matter, but it does. I feel like I am grasping at some ambiguous fact, some bit of human nature. Maybe I feel like something to analyze is what I need right now. Something to distract me.

I make a mental note to think about it to myself as I sit on the train.

I am still thinking about it days later, as my undergarments are finally placed back onto my body by foreign hands. I am obsessing over it, apparently determined to become a philosopher before my early death. I guess it's only fair that wisdom should come to me at some point in my life.

Finally, I am wearing clothes again.

This guy, my stylist, Cinna, is making me look beautiful before my big, big, big day. Makeup, showers, and other luxuries were now mine, including quite a few that I had never even heard of before. It would be a Capitol girl's dream.

Except that I feel like one of the steaks from last night's dinner – marinated lavishly, only to be thrown onto a grill and torched.

Cinna dabs a little too much blush onto my face and begins to remove it. Well, too much by his standards. By my standards, any blush is a little too much, but he seems to be fully capable, and at least he isn't making me look like a Capitol freak. Still, I feel like a steak. At the thought, last night's feast rumbles unsteadily in my morning stomach. I'm not used to this heavy food. Or this heavy new look.

Yeah, I'm a steak, waiting to be thrown onto the grill and blackened to a crisp. But for some reason, I can't get myself to care too much about the marinade. Not with Cinna in charge.

He seems so be my favorite person in the whole building. He doesn't push things, I guess. Even standing naked in front of him didn't make me feel too vulnerable. That's either because imminent death has put trivial things like nudity into perspective, or because this man is the most dangerous one in the building. But I decide to go ahead and trust him. He can't hurt me, right? Anyway, he seems like a nice guy.

More importantly, though, I find an escape in analyzing my new obsession.

My curiosity of him gets a hold of me after a while, because I know that he isn't nosy enough to start a real conversation. I had been wondering for some time, but now I ask. "Cinna, why do you work for the tributes?"

"Why?" His smile is slow in coming, but it's there. A wry smile. " 'My career as a stylist is greatly honored by my position in the prestigious Hunger Games tradition.' " He said it seriously, but it sounded like he was quoting something. Himself, maybe. I got the sense that that was his alibi rather than the actual reason.

I thought for a moment. "Ostensibly, sure, but what is your true motive?"

He pauses too. "Hm. I don't really know." Although he didn't strike me as the type to be at a loss for words often, he was now.

Unsure of how to satisfy my curiosity, I ask, "So what's your favorite part about it? The naked girls?"

He actually laughs now, and if it's possible to give a wry laugh, that's what it would be described as. "Hardly. That means nothing to me. I guess I just like proving to the tributes that I know they are human beings. You know what I mean… Everyone else treats you like a single cog in a vast machine, but they disguise it, and put up the pretense of luxury to keep you from feeling mistreated." His sentences become more intense and passionate as he realizes what he is trying to say, and he talks faster. "Someone, even another cog in the system, should feel obligated to show some respect for that poor tribute's dignity, and that's what I enjoy about my job. What I don't enjoy," he gets more detached now, taking some measurements of that have already been taken, "is when tributes take it for granted that my pampered Capitol life makes me a lesser person than them. Some tributes seem to take on this attitude that the more deprived one is, the more admirable one becomes."

"Cog in the system… piece in the games." I mumble absently. I'm thinking about what he just said. That last part… well, that last part sounded a lot like Madge. Like what she said about the deprived people from the Seam treating her differently.

Suddenly I realize what they are both saying. They're right. I encounter that attitude myself, although generally not directed at me. There are kids I know that seem to think that being dealt a losing hand is glamorous. Like nothing a well-off person says or does can touch them, simply because their life is rough in whatever way.

For the life of me, I cannot understand why that bothered me so much. I don't believe either of them thought I had an attitude like that. They clearly have the wisdom to understand that all people in such a position are to be pitied and helped rather than shunned in bitterness. But still, it can't be pleasant to have to receive such misplaced enmity. It just makes so much sense, growing up in the Seam, now that I understand why there was so much animosity towards the Madges of the district.

Finally, though, that insight is mine.

Now that I understand human nature a little bit better, the games are the only thing to take interest in.

Imminent death. Yay. Bring it on…


End file.
